


All the Way to the Graveyard

by AdmirableMonster (Mertiya)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bathing/Washing, Fix-It of Sorts, Gang Rape, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nonverbal Communication, Rape Recovery, Whump, hints of demi beleg, if you are not here for the gangrape but would like fluffy turleg, may i suggest skipping directly to ch 2, suggestions of autistic túrin, this fic is simultaneously on the darker side for me and also the fluffier side
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28921338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/AdmirableMonster
Summary: Andróg and the outlaws handle Beleg as evilly as they do in canon, but Túrin returns just a shade earlier.  Not, perhaps, in the nick of time--but early enough to know and to act accordingly.
Relationships: Beleg Cúthalion/Túrin Turambar
Comments: 22
Kudos: 56





	1. I Keep Digging Myself Down Deeper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daphnerunning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/gifts).



> halfway through Children of Hurin and apparently this needed to happen. blame daphnerunning
> 
> yes, I do firmly believe this is what HAPPENED to beleg in canon. T-T
> 
> titles from Graveyard by Halsey
> 
> if you want to skip the really brutal stuff you can go straight to chapter 2 for the h/c and some fluff
> 
> thanks to basaltserpent for Thoughts TM and general support

He had been tied to the tree for two days.

Beleg found himself irritable and tired; surely, Túrin would return soon, for the bonds chafed.He was of no mind to give any answer to those who would return a friendly greeting with such rough treatment, so he would wait for Túrin.

He heard the approach of the Men from within their cave, their voices raucous, their laughter grating.He did not like the sound of it, nor of their heavy, shambling footfalls.They staggered out like a pack of beasts, and Beleg wondered once again what Túrin had been thinking when he joined them.But, no—perhaps that was unfair.Many months in the wilderness could make any Man seem rough and ill-cared for.They had taken Túrin in when he felt that his own kin had cast him out, after all.

The one called Andróg led them, swaying a little, but unerringly right over to the tree where Beleg was bound.In one hand he held a bottle, and with the other he held himself up as he leaned against the tree.The other Men were laughing and jeering as he did so.“Care to tell us anything new?” he asked.His breath stank of sour beer.

“I am a friend of Neithan,” Beleg repeated with a sigh, and then the Man pinched his chin with a hand.

“He’s pretty,” Andróg said, and Beleg twisted, trying to escape his grasp.

“Let go,” he said sharply, but the Man did not release his grip.

One of the other Men, one called Ordstan, leaned curiously around Andróg.“As pretty as a Woman,” he said, running a hand across Beleg’s ear, and Beleg growled in outrage.

“Don’t touch me.” 

It was as if he hadn’t spoken at all.It was as if—he wasn’t _here_.Or as if he was—a doll, instead of a being, for all the attention they paid to him.

“Do you think it’s a female Elf?” asked another one of the Men. “Are they like us?Have they—”

“One way to find out,” Andróg said, and he bent down.Beleg felt the ropes about his feet being sliced apart, and he kicked, hard, partly out of anger, partly to force them to stop pretending he wasn’t even there.There was an ugly thunking noise as his flailing foot caught Andróg in the jaw, and the Man went over backwards, snarling and cursing, amidst shouts of hooting laughter.

“He was so polite when you tied him up!” someone called, mockingly.“Maybe he’s forgotten who’s in charge here!”

“I’ll show him who’s in charge,” growled Andróg, stumbling to his feet and holding his jaw.“Hold him down.Get his leggings off.”

There were hands on him, then, from all sides.Instinctive fear rolled through Beleg’s body, and he fought against them in grim silence, rolling his hips and kicking.He was stronger than they, but there were far more of them, and his hands were bound.One of the Men had a knife and was slashing at his leggings.As the cloth parted, he felt the cold of the night air on his naked skin.

“Let me see him,” Andróg panted.There was blood on his chin; he must have bitten his lip.Beleg was breathing hard as well.Despite the exertion, there was a sudden chill in his blood that had not been there before.Those hands, pinching and painful, slowly pulled his legs apart and raised his body.His thighs trembled with the effort of fighting against them, but there were too many.

Andróg leaned over him again, and now there was a rough hand running across his inner thigh.“Not a female,” Andróg said, sounding amused despite his bloody mouth.“But very pretty for all that.”

“He still has a hole, doesn’t he?” another voice called, and it was only, somehow, _then_ , that Beleg truly understood what he was facing, his breath freezing in his lungs, his thoughts whirling about wildly.

A finger prodded him, viciously, rough and painful, and he heard someone make a shocked little noise.“Yes,” Andróg said, with a wolfish grin.“He still has a hole.”The blood trickled down from his lip and gathered in his unkempt beard.The hands on Beleg’s legs were hot, but he was very cold.He shut his eyes as Andróg’s fingers scissored inside him, sending pain slicing through him, thighs trembling.

He could feel his soul rebelling.He could feel it trying to withdraw from the brutalization of his form.There was an escape that way, should he choose to take it.But if he did take it, he would have to leave Middle Earth forever.He would have to leave with his quest half-completed.He would have to leave Túrin amongst Men who would do such a thing for sport.There was a little whimper in his ear. 

He would not leave.He would stay and endure.For Túrin.To keep him safe.To keep him whole.

He could hear whistling and laughter again, and there were more hands on him.“Who wants to go first?” Andróg asked, and Beleg’s eyes snapped open in horror.

A voice answered, but he was beyond hearing the words.It was just another one of the Men, in any case.Rough beard, rough hands.The fingers slid out of him, but something else replaced them, bigger, blunter— _worse_.His whole body tensed against it, and his soul flinched away.He had seconds, perhaps, still to leave before this happened to him, and they were seconds full of fighting against a desperate horrified fear.But he could not leave Túrin.

The pain was so much worse than he had even expected.Beleg had spoken with married Elves, and he was no innocent.He might not have partaken, but he was well aware of the sorts of things that could be enjoyed in a marriage bed.He had even, very recently, begun to find some curiosity inside himself about the firsthand experience.But this was no marriage bed, and he was not prepared.It felt as if the thing being forced inside him would tear him open.

“He’s too tight.”

“No such thing.”

“You try it then, I can’t even get inside.”

There was cold moisture on his face.There was hot moisture between his legs as the first Man withdrew and the second took his place.The pain ebbed and then swelled and swelled and _swelled_ , and Beleg heard someone give a soft, breathy little squeak.The Man grunted.“Feels—good.”More noises happened then; more pain.Worse than the pain was the roiling cold heaviness in his stomach.He could leave still; his soul still fluttered in disarray.He would not.He could, but he would not.Did that make it his choice?

The pain dulled a little as the movement became rhythmic.The crowd was yelling, blurred noises against Beleg’s ears.Somewhere above, he could see the stars shining down, but there was a glass wall between him and them, and he could not reach them.The Man grunted again, in Beleg’s ear, and there was a pulsing sensation and a hot rush inside him.Then the Man was gone, and Beleg knew the Man’s seed was dripping down his leg.

“I want his mouth!” shouted someone, and Beleg’s body shuddered.

“Well, you can’t have it,” Andróg retorted, sounding for all the world as if they were discussing their options for an evening meal.“Not unless you’re able to fly.I’ll not risk untying him.”His hand took Beleg’s chin and forced it to the side.“Besides, the bitch would bite.Look how angry he is.”

Was he angry, Beleg wondered.He seemed to have no idea of any emotions at all; his body felt cold and disconnected, and all he could feel was the sharp pain inside himself and the slow, viscous slide of the seed down his leg.

The next Man was much the same.The pain dulled a little, and Beleg drifted, hanging limp against his bonds.He did not bother trying to fight any longer.The pain was bad enough when he did not, and he could have left but he had not.So he supposed that there was not much point in fighting.

“Look, he’s being sweet now.”Fingers were pressed into his mouth, the taste foul.He didn’t respond, didn’t react.

“My turn now,” Andróg said.“Let’s see how sweet he is for me.”

Andróg was worse.He was worse because it didn’t hurt so much now.Beleg was limp and pliant as Andróg forced his way inside, and he knew that the Man was fucking the seed back into him.It was also worse because his first deep thrust struck something inside Beleg that sparked with pleasure.His body moaned softly, and he shook with it.It was supposed to hurt.It wasn’t supposed to feel like _that_.

Whistles.Shouts.“Look at him, the whore loves it!”

His cheeks were hot and flushed, and the pain was muted before the sparking, awful pleasure.His own cock was filling for the first time the whole evening.His face was close to Andróg’s, and those laughing dark eyes were fixed on his.He gasped as Andróg’s hand slipped between them and began to fist his cock.

“Neithan's _friend_ ,” Andróg whispered, and Beleg was shocked to the core at the directed venom in his voice.“Not so high and mighty now, are you?Did you think you could just shut your eyes through this and then it would all be over?”

It was too late to escape, Beleg told himself fiercely.It was too _late_.It would do no good, now.But, _oh_ , how he wanted to.It was not enough, it seemed, for him to be tormented and violated.It would not be enough until the last precious thing was taken from him.Quite suddenly, he wondered what _would_ happen when Túrin returned?

Túrin was not always very clever about reading situations.But would he know, somehow, that this last precious thing had been taken from Beleg?Would he know that Beleg had nothing left to _give_ him anymore?Would he care?He shut his eyes and shook his head and let the pleasure rise, for there was no way he could fight it.Each one of Andróg’s thrusts shook him to the core, sending warmth bursting across him, bringing him closer to a peak from which there was no escape.The glass wall still kept away the stars.His breath shook, and the tears slipped down his too-hot cheeks.

“Come on then, whore,” Andróg whispered to him, and Beleg’s stomach dropped as his body jerked and writhed in those horribly expert hands.There was no sound but the little pleasured noises falling from Beleg’s lips and the slap of flesh on flesh as Andróg fucked him.

For the first time that evening, the crowd was silent.

It was the silence that brought Beleg’s eyes open again, blurred with pleasure too nearly sated.But with his eyes open, he could see, and Túrin had always been head and shoulders above a crowd.His eyes were wide and horrified.

His sword.He had drawn his sword.

The glass wall shattered to a sword strike as Túrin Húrin’s son forced his way between the watchers, put one hand upon Andróg’s shoulder, dragged him back and ran him through.

The crowd stayed silent.No one moved as Túrin flung Andróg’s body to the side and hurried to Beleg’s side, as he cut the ropes that bound his stiff wrists to the tree.Beleg’s legs were trembling too much to hold him up, and Túrin caught him as he was about to fall, slipping an arm beneath his shoulders.

“If any Man stays our flight,” Túrin said into the silence, “I will serve him as I have served Andróg this night.”He let the cloak fall from his shoulders, wrapping it about Beleg’s waist and, despite Beleg’s feeble protest, swinging him up into his arms.“Shhh, shhh,” he whispered, his breath warm against Beleg’s hair.“Don’t move.I’m taking you somewhere safe.”

Beleg had never heard him sound so, except perhaps when he was coaxing a stray kitten out from underneath an overturned plank so he could feed it and nurse it.“I’m sorry,” he forced between numb lips.

“No.You’re not,” Túrin told him.Then, stammering, “I mean.You can’t be.There’s no reason.You haven’t done anything wrong.”


	2. I Won't Stop Till I Get Where You Are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> obviously there's still quite some dark stuff referred to in this chapter but it's much lighter and fluffier in general

Túrin brought him, still wrapped in his cloak, to an abandoned cottage in the woods.The vines had grown over it thickly, and the windows were broken, but there was a functioning fireplace and a quilt still upon the bed.“I found it while I was making my way back,” Túrin explained, sounding a little aimless. 

He put Beleg upon the bed and said something about sealing up the windows, but Beleg heard little more, for his exhausted body gave out, and he drifted into sleep beneath the quilt despite the cold.

He woke in the middle of the night, sore and stiff, to see that Túrin was looking down at him, breathing hard, his dark eyes wide, and the obvious tracks of tears upon his face.He blinked and shivered, banishing the memory of unwanted hands upon him by reaching out and taking Túrin’s.

“I’m sorry,” Túrin blurted.“I did not mean to wake you.Please.Rest.”

“You look fearful,” Beleg said.It was easier to attend to Túrin’s needs than his own, some little part of his _fëa_ noted.And he had not seen Túrin so obviously upset since he was a child.“What ails you?”

A soft, broken laugh, and Túrin knelt at his bedside.“I am sorry,” he whispered.“I didn’t want to make you see.I just—it’s so hard not to know.”

“Not to know…?” Beleg prompted.He had long ago learned not to try to guess what his human companion would say.

“How soon I must dig your grave,” jerked out of Túrin’s mouth, and then he put a hand across it and inhaled, as if he hadn’t meant to speak at all.

“What?” Beleg asked blankly.The injuries were painful but hardly lethal.Surely Túrin knew that.

“I know that an Elf who is forced will die.And you were forced, you—you know, don’t you?Even if he drugged you, you were bound, you could not escape, he was—”

Beleg caught Túrin’s hand and squeezed, trying to get him to stop.The words afforded some comfort—Túrin’s faith afforded as much as any of it—but he could not _think_ of the scene that Túrin must have witnessed. 

“I was not drugged,” he said finally.“If I had been, I think—” he winced, but it was not the pain he feared; pain was a well-known companion, “—I think I would be hurting less now.”

He saw the question forming in Túrin’s eyes, though his friend did not speak, and he could not bear to have him wonder so, about the sight of Beleg writhing with pleasure on Andróg’s shaft. “There are things that may be done to—to a body,” he stammered, wondering if he spoke true.“That are contrary to what the mind wills.Or perhaps it is that I chose not—to die.”

“You…chose?” Túrin prompted, haltingly.

“That is, I think, what you have heard of,” Beleg said, exhaustedly.He was so, so tired.“An Elf who is violated may follow the call of Mandos.The soul rebels.I felt it.I could have died then rather than let them continue.”

“ _Why_?” Túrin sobbed, his hand tightening about Beleg’s; the next moment his words were choked off, and Beleg knew that he had reached that point of emotion when his words simply ceased.It had frustrated him in the past; now he was mutely, perhaps, a little grateful.

He brought Túrin’s hand to his face.It seemed foolish, now, not to tell him all.“Because I would not leave you, _melindo_.”He had been afraid that kissing the palm of Túrin’s hand would bring the memories back, but it did not.It was a quiet comfort in a raging ocean.Túrin’s eyes were shot with agony, and he was trembling.He shook his head violently, then his shoulders, and he pulled away from Beleg, both hands flying to his neck as he scratched at it, desperate yet aimless, something Beleg hadn’t seen him do in years.

He stalked around the tiny cottage in a tight, rapid arc, fetching up against the window, hands still moving.There was little light but the embers of the fire, but Beleg could see him clearly enough to know his hands had only moved from his neck to his wrists.“Túrin,” he said weakly, and Túrin turned, shaking his head again, striding immediately back to his side.

He opened his mouth, looked frustrated, and shut it again; then he laid a gentle hand in Beleg’s hair and stroked it, questioningly.“I am very tired,” Beleg told him.“But I am more awake now, and I am not sure I can sleep with—” he swallowed.The evidence still stained him, and to feel it made him shudder.“I am befouled,” he said bitterly.Túrin flinched, then nodded.He held up a finger, indicating for Beleg to wait a moment.Then he went over and began to stir up the fire.He had evidently collected quite a lot of wood while Beleg was unconscious, and he piled it high now.Then he turned and strode out the door.

Beleg was not prepared for the panic that would take him as Túrin vanished from his sight.It pulled him into a little ball, brought his knees to his chest and his hands over his head.It was a position of wordless terror he had not taken on in millennia.He lay like that, listening to the drumming sound of his heart inside his chest, until he heard the sound of the door unlatch again and managed to peek out to see that Túrin had come back in.He was lugging a heavy wooden tub, which he set in the center of the room. 

When he looked over and saw Beleg, the frown of concentration on his face turned into another look of concern, and he ran to his side, reaching out, but not quite touching him.Beleg forced the rictus of his muscles to react enough that he could reach out and take Túrin’s hand, and hold onto it as his shuddering breathing eased.

Túrin sat upon the bed and stroked his hair, careful and tender.

“I’m all right,” Beleg said wearily.“Just—don’t leave again?”

A nod.Túrin’s mouth opened, and frustration bloomed again; he shook his head, and then he bent over and dropped a quick, gentle kiss just at Beleg’s hairline.

Beleg let his eyes flutter and drowsed as he listened to Túrin moving about.He opened the door several more times to fetch snow from outside, but he did not leave this time, just leaned out and fetched kettle after kettle.He pulled the tub near to the fire.The water in it was steaming gently.Then he returned to the bed.

This part would be difficult, Beleg knew.He didn’t want anyone to see him stripped and naked—ever again—but he wasn’t willing to ask Túrin to turn his back.He wasn’t willing to give up the trust he had for this Man because others had injured him.Yet all he could do was swing his legs out of the bed and sit, shivering, his arms crossed over his chest.

Túrin blinked at him and then gave him an encouraging smile and turned his back.Then he reached back, still not looking at Beleg, and held out one large hand.Tears pricked Beleg’s eyes.Swiftly, he pulled off his shirt and let the cloak fall from about his legs.Taking Túrin’s hand, he let his friend help him stand and step across the floor to the tub.

Halfway through, he made the mistake of looking down.His thighs were covered in bruises in the shape of fingerprints; between them were crusted streaks of muddy red.His legs gave out at the sight, and he would have fallen to the floor if Túrin hadn’t turned swiftly and caught him, pulling him close.When Beleg looked up, he realized that Túrin’s eyes were carefully shut, and he pressed his face into Túrin’s chest and let himself weep.Túrin made a soft shushing noise, not words, but vocalizations, his large hand petting and petting Beleg’s head, careful, gentle, delicate.

After another long moment of this, he felt strong enough to let Beleg help him into the steaming water, and he sank into the soothing warmth with a gasp of relief.“You can open your eyes now.”

Beleg had expected nothing more than the hot water, but Túrin produced a little rag of cloth wrapped about slim bundle of dark roots that Beleg recognized as the roots of red butcher flowers.They frothed up the water nicely as he rubbed them about with the rag.Then he held it out to Beleg.

He had not thought he would want another’s hand upon him, ever again, but, curiously, now that the option was presented, he found he did want Túrin’s.He wanted to be touched with care and kindness, even if it were only this once.Pressing the rag back into Túrin’s hand, he shook his head.“You do it?” he asked.“Please?”

Túrin trembled a little as he took the cloth, but he said nothing, just leaning down into the water with it.He halted, after a moment, looking at Beleg. 

“Ah, you have not—seen.Of course.” Beleg guided his hand down onto his thigh, and he saw tears starting up in Túrin’s eyes again.They slid down easily even as Túrin gently, rhythmically, began to clean him, with no further trace of hesitation.He did not behave as if Beleg were stained irrevocably.If it had not been for the tears, it could have been any normal, simple task.

It took a long time to finish cleaning his thighs, or perhaps Túrin was over-thorough.When that was done, there was only—there was only the other injuries.They would heal, cleaned or not, but Beleg still felt filthy deep inside.“I,” he said.He did not know how to ask this.Surely Túrin would turn from _that_.He would be repulsed. 

Túrin did not push him.He squatted beside the tub and very carefully tucked a strand of hair behind Beleg’s ear, then simply waited, not meeting Beleg’s gaze—he often did not, when he could not talk.Beleg pushed out a long breath.He could not say it, but he could take Túrin’s hand about the wrist and guide it further down.“If you don’t want to—I would—understand—”

With what seemed to be an effort, Túrin raised his gaze to Beleg’s and leaned forward.For an instant, Beleg thought he would kiss him, but he only leaned his forehead against Beleg’s, his breathing a little ragged.And then he began to do as Beleg had asked him.

It took longer, even, than his thighs.It hurt, though Beleg did not mind, and it did not hurt as much as he expected.Túrin’s fingers were large but desperately gentle.He made it feel like a normal thing to be asked.Intimate, but not—not what Beleg had feared.Even, he thought drowsily, something that he might have liked under other circumstances, in a different way, though it held no such complexion now.

Once he was quite clean, Túrin turned his back again, giving him a clean, if slightly ragged, larger piece of cloth to use as a towel.Beleg stepped out, drying himself quickly, and, with a sigh, looked about for something to wear.All he saw was the cloak Túrin had wrapped him in, for he would not put back on the soiled tunic.“Have you an extra tunic and leggings?” he asked, and Túrin nodded, pointing towards where his pack lay at the side of the cottage.“I know it won’t fit,” Beleg said, surprised that his lip _could_ quirk with amusement.“But I would—I would like to be clad.”

Another quick nod.Túrin hurried over and fetched tunic and leggings as Beleg sat down with a sigh upon the bed.It felt wonderful to pull on Túrin’s shirt and surround himself with Túrin’s scent, like a shield that would protect him.He thought of something, suddenly, and, catching at Túrin’s hand, pulled him across the cottage to the door and flung it open.Above them were the stars, bright and jewel-like, so close Beleg could have reached up and touched them, and the spark of wild joy he felt at seeing them was such that he turned without thinking and pressed his lips to Túrin’s.

He felt Túrin’s breath upon his lip.Túrin’s hands fell onto his shoulders.The kiss lasted just two breaths, and then Beleg pulled back, suddenly fearful.He had wanted to do that for so long but surely— _surely_ now was not the time, if it had ever been.Túrin was staring down at him with his dark eyes blazing with some nameless emotion, a soft flush glowing on his cheeks.He closed his mouth and opened it again, and then, to Beleg’s surprise, he croaked out a single word, “Again?”

“Yes, _melindo_.As many times as you like,” Beleg whispered.He reached up and slid his hands through Túrin’s rough hair.He loved the feeling of it, like tangling in a wolf’s rough coat.Túrin pulled him close, and they kissed again, deeply, the stars shining down like a benediction.Already the last three days were fading into some kind of bad dream.Beleg knew it would not be so simple—knew that it was not an experience that could simply be shaken off.He had seen such things before.But it was an unlooked-for joy that he could simply _be_ so joyful in Túrin’s presence, as he had been once, before the fragile soap bubble of their time in Doriath had been popped by Saeros’s clumsy fingers.

He felt clean and safe and cared-for.And if he was a little embarrassed to admit he had apparently become another member of Túrin’s stray-kitten collection, well, he could endure that.


End file.
